


Beneath the Armor

by strangeallure



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Ash Tyler is a cunning cunnilinguist, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, ISS Shenzhou, LLF Comment Project, Michael Burnham puts efficiency first, Mirror Universe, Missing Scene, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Begins with the last minutes of 1x10 "Despite Yourself" and ends before 1x11 "The Wolf Inside".After a grueling first day on the ISS Shenzhou, Michael Burnham and Ash Tyler find comfort in one another.





	Beneath the Armor

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very interested in the power dynamics between Michael and Ash, how they deal with trauma old and new, and what draws them to each other. Also, they're really hot together.
> 
> Thank you to [frangipani](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani) for her encouragement and feedback.

**one**

She would not dare admit it, but she is thankful for the Terran armor. It’s heavy and rigid and molded to her body, forcing her into combat-ready posture at all times. The breastplate and belts constrain her breathing, and the press of the thigh holster, positioned for immediate access to her phaser, constantly reminds her that she is armed. It makes her feel strong and in charge.

For the Michael Burnham she becomes when she puts it on, this universe makes sense. She knows how to navigate its power structures and manipulate its people in a way her old self never could. This Michael knew instinctually Connor was a threat simply because he had succeeded her as captain, had usurped her place. She thrilled at her own prowess in taking his life, relished the crew’s deference and fear. She knows no questions, no uncertainties. She is second to none, deserving of everything.

Now the doors to her quarters close behind her, and Michael’s world shifts. The physical pain she had refused to acknowledge until now pushes through, making her flesh and muscles ache, her bones feel too dense. She fought to the death today and won. She watched Connor die, again. Stabbed him with a blade and pushed it in deep.

All Michael wants to do is take off the armor and try finding herself again. The breastplate is heavy, and it hurts to take it off. She looks at it with revulsion, but when she puts it down on its own chair, there’s reverence, too. It’s like a sacred artifact, imbued with transformative power.

She exhales, moving over to the other chair, eager to get the rest of the uniform off, when she senses someone in the corner more than she sees them. She gasps and her hand reaches for her weapon, but before she can seize it, she realizes that it’s Ash.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she says. She feels caught off guard and … irritated that he’s here. Right now, she is so unsure of who she is, and she doesn’t want him to see her this way.

She demands an explanation for how he got into her quarters, and he says that the access codes are the same as on Discovery. Only when he adds that, as head of security, he knows all codes, that it’s not just hers he has memorized, she finds some of her footing again, if only for a moment. He almost smiles as he says it, vaguely apologetic, and it’s a strangely normal thing, that he doesn’t want her to think he is using his security privileges to invade her private space. Like that still matters in a situation like this.

It stings when he asks about the files on the Defiant, the reason she’s here, and she falls down heavy into the chair, taking the belts and thigh holster off as she goes. The upholstery is surprisingly soft, incongruous with her harsh surroundings, and she sinks in a little. A captain’s creature comforts in a ruthless place.

She feels small, inadequate, when she has to admit to her failure. She is annoyed, too, with how this universe works, how everyone is always watching, waiting for her to show weakness and exploit it. Taking her boots and gloves off gives her something to do, something to concentrate on while she talks to him, and she’s glad of it.

“I didn’t want to rouse suspicion,” she says and looks up at him, willing him to understand.

He goes to sit across from her, on the bed, giving her space, getting them on eye level. She inspects her hands. Her knuckles hurt from the fight, but there seems to be something in the glove design that spared her bruising, and all of a sudden, she wants to cry.

He knows what she is trying to say, intuits it the way she hoped he would. “I heard about what happened. With Connor.”

Him acknowledging it makes it more real somehow. She doesn’t know how to breathe anymore and opens her collar. She takes one loud breath, two, and is surprised she still can.

He’s hunched over, eyes shining and fixed on her, with an expression she cannot read. She is so torn, unsure of what she is, what she might be becoming, but she knows that he is there for her, is here, for her, in this dreadful place. She might not be able to read his expression, but she knows his heart.

His voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady, a current of unspoken feelings just beneath his words. “Whatever you do, whatever this place makes you do, whatever happens to you – or me – however we change, I am here to protect you.”

What he says scares and comforts her all at once. This is a murderous place, and it makes Michael afraid of her own darkness. She had felt it, the change within herself, when she killed T’Kuvma, the first time she had meant to take a life. Killing Connor today, she had felt it again, this brief rush of satisfaction, elation, of raw power. And here he is, Ash Tyler, survivor of horrible things, offering his acceptance and his protection no matter what she might do, what she may become.

“Nothing will ever stand in the way of that,” he adds. “Nothing.” It’s a declaration, a matter of fact.

It scares her how good it feels in its absoluteness, scares her to a point that she is reluctant to respond.

He pleads with her to understand, forehead creased and lips parted. Still sitting and waiting for her to accept what he offers.

“Yes,” she breaths and comes to him.

His hand closes around her own and then she cradles his head against her chest like a mother, eyes sliding shut as some of the tension in her drains away.

She takes his face in both hands and makes him look up at her.

Her voice is hushed and earnest: “I’m saying it back.” It feels like a pact.

He smiles, relieved and intimate, and closes his eyes before she even moves in to kiss him.

She straddles his thigh and they recline onto the bed, mouths moving, hands roaming. They have kissed before, but this feels different.

They turn together, slow, careful, until she is on her back. He’s only partially on top of her, so they both have space to move and explore as their kisses deepen.

She doesn’t want to think anymore, not about her own darkness and not about his, not about the way this world might transform them, how this experience might twist or break them forever. With every kiss, it gets easier to forget, to lose herself in the sensations they share.

If, in the end, darkness does win, she hopes it will swallow them both.

 

**two**

They have shared a few kisses before, but never like this.

He wonders sometimes what a normal courtship with Michael Burnham would have been like, and even the fact that his mind supplies such an old-fashioned term makes him think that nothing about being with her could ever be like what he’s known before.

Still, without this place, without these extreme circumstances, he knows it would be different. They would not be moving nearly as fast – if they had even met at all. She’s too cautious, too guarded, although he suspects that she has been more generous with herself towards him than she has ever been before.

They’re both survivors, bend into strange shapes by experiences they couldn’t control. He feels a deep kinship with her, with the continuous conflict he knows she is fighting within herself. On the inside, he’s constantly fighting, too. Sometimes, it seems too much, like he’s coming apart. But not when he’s with her. When they’re together, there are small moments where he feels something like peace. Together, they can find their way to the eye of the storm, to a quiet place with just enough space for the two of them.

He breaks from the kiss, moving his cheek along her jawline, thrilled by the way her body arches up into him, her lips trying to maintain contact, pressing against his temple.

“I want to kiss you everywhere,” he murmurs against her ear, feeling the damp heat of his own breath on her skin, too aware of the way her chest heaves beneath him. “I want to make every part of you feel good.” It’s so sincere it hurts, makes his lids squeeze shut with the weight of truth. He wants to give, give, give; to her. He desperately wants to be someone with something left to give.

“Yes,” she whispers, voice rough, her hands sliding up over his neck and into his hair. Her eagerness ignites a current between them, making his skin buzz, static crackling wherever they touch.

His mouth slides down her throat, skin smooth and salty, and his hand finds the zipper on the front of her uniform, pulling it down as he nibbles at her collarbone. He tries to go slow, savor the taste of her, the sensation of her body moving under his.

Without warning, she takes hold of his shoulders and pushes him away. Her lips are wet, kiss-swollen and enticing, and he’s confused for a moment, just knows how much he wants to keep kissing her, keep touching her. Before he can make sense of the situation, she gets up from the bed to stand in front of him.

“Just let me get this off,” she says, quickly stepping out of her black overalls and pulling off her socks.  

Her voice is impatient, as are her movements, and it makes him chuckle, affection adding a different kind of warmth to the heat in his gut.

“I admire your efficiency,” he says, sitting up and sliding his legs over the side of the bed.

She gives him a small, crooked smile; like this is new for her, uncharted territory. It makes him want to protect her, guide her, wrap himself around her.

New to the experience or not, she is nothing if not goal-oriented, and her fingers swiftly slip under the hem of her tank top.

Before she can take it off, he puts his hands on her hips and pulls her close, between his legs. It’s another surge of electricity, his palms too hot where they touch her through the fabric, a magnetic pull in his body that just wants to get closer. He resists; he wants to make this last.

“Let me,” he says, looking up at her, his chin almost touching her stomach. Her eyes are large, a question in them, but she’s already moved her hands to his shoulders, strong and heavy atop his Terran uniform.

He lifts the fabric a little bit, just enough so that his knuckles skim the swell of her breasts, and places a kiss below her bellybutton. The smack of his lips seems loud in her quiet quarters, intimate. His mouth tingles with the touch, fine hairs tickling when he moves almost imperceptibly, only a whisper of space between them.

At first contact, she inhales sharply and her hips jut forward, closer to him. He’s pleased with how she reacts to even light touches; how eager her body is to respond. It’s so different from-

The thoughts are like shrapnel, embedded in his mind from another time, another universe. He doesn’t want these fractured memories to invade this moment, so he pushes them away.

He needs a second to steady himself, catch his breath, concentrating on the feel of her skin beneath his mouth. He continues taking his time after that, pushing her tank top up little by little and trailing wet kisses up her stomach until his nose is buried between her breasts, pressed against her bra.

When he gets up to pull the tank top over her head, she raises her arms in anticipation, like a child who still needs help undressing. It excites him more than it probably should that he’s in charge right now. That strong, willful Michael Burnham lets him be in charge.

The smile forming on his face feels pleased, cocky even, muscle memory from _before;_ and it’s so good to have it come naturally, to not paste it on in pretense.

He points towards the bed with his chin, “Lie down.”

She does as she’s told, and it goes straight to his groin.

Her body is laid out before him, propped up by a pillow under her head and shoulder blades. She looks at him with eyes dark, yet open; arousal and trust coexisting in her gaze. Pinpricks of desire run along his spine, a little pain with so much pleasure he hardly knows what to do with it. He desperately wants to touch, but even more he wants to compose himself, stay in control. He’s glad to still be wearing the Terran uniform. It feels somewhat rough all of a sudden, constricting in a way it wasn’t before, and the slight sense of unease keeps him grounded. It helps keep his desire in check, letting it settle inside, beneath his flesh.

There’s a little sweat along her hairline and an impatient tug at her mouth the longer he’s looking, even as her eyes cut away, almost bashful. Like his scrutiny takes her out of the moment, makes her conscious of what they’re doing, how new and intimate it is. But he notices a movement of her legs, too. She’s rubbing her thighs together, seeking friction, a subtle pull going through her body when she gets it. Being studied like this, it might make her anxious, but it arouses her, too.

He feels his smile deepen as he deliberately takes in her body. Her underwear is simple and white, a sharp contrast to her smooth skin, enhancing its glow. The simplicity suits her, and it occurs to him that it does not look Terran.

He lies down next to her, careful to have a hand’s breadth between them. She shifts in a way that he knows she wants to get closer, but defers to him, lets him take the lead. He stretches out his body, emphasizing how much taller and broader he is than her. He could blanket her completely, shield her from the world.

Her eyes rove over him, and she doesn’t miss how aroused he is, his erection clearly visible even through the black fabric of the overalls. Good, he thinks. He wants her to see, wants to be seen. She bites at her lower lip, and he thinks it’s more than just her own excitement, that she enjoys having this effect on him. He can see her mind make connections along with her body, realizing cause and effect, and it makes him want to show her more, teach her, makes his blood thick with wanting her, but he tells himself to wait, take it slow, let the ache burn and built inside himself.

His hand drifts toward her chest, and he begins tracing the outline of her bra with his index finger. No frills, no lace, virginal white. He wants to grab and knead and suck and bite, but he keeps his motions leisurely, deliberate. The way her breath hitches, the way she pushes out her chest, it turns him on, makes him feel powerful. Right now, he’s the master of her arousal, and her body is thrumming with anticipation, eager for what he has to give her.

Finally, he cups her breast in one hand and begins skimming his thumb over its peak. She moans, low, as her nipple hardens. It’s warm and firm beneath the sensible fabric, and he can see its dark puckered shape show through. Her underwear is so plain, functional, a flimsy token of her real self, and he’s the only one to see. He could take it off in an instant, and he knows she would let him, that she wants him to. Instead, he surges towards her and closes his mouth over her nipple. A soft cry escapes her, and her hands slide over his neck and into his hair, keeping him in place. Her grip is firm and a memory of someone’s hand on a neck prickles at the back of his mind, of quick movement and fragility.

He centers his attention, pushes his saliva against the fabric with his tongue, getting it good and wet. It tastes of salt, of the sweat from the fight she won today. He shouldn’t be thinking of how she killed Connor right now, but he is. Imagines her standing, one foot on her prey, panting and exhausted and glowing with righteous victory. He sucks harder, eager to taste more, and moves on top of her, one hand on her ribcage, another one digging into the flesh of her thigh. She opens up for him easily, one leg moving around his body, getting him closer.

The material of her bra gets stiff as it dampens, feels less flexible and cooler in contrast to his hot mouth. At the same time, he senses the heat radiating off of her just beneath, her flesh calling to him. Still, he lets up, blowing across the soaked fabric. Her breath hitches and her body tenses upward as she tries to get more friction. It makes him greedy, possessive, gets him so hard, grinding against her leg.

He slides down her body, artless, no caresses, no kisses, and buries his face in her lap. She smells delicious: earth and salt and sweat. Her panties are damp already and her pulse pounds so hot and fast he can feel it. He closes his mouth over the fabric hungrily, yet depriving himself of the full taste of her, delaying the inevitable. It’s too much and not enough. His head moves mindlessly, rubbing his beard against the insides of her thighs. He doesn’t know if he means it to hurt or excite, he’s not sure there’s a difference.

Her sounds are quiet, pleading and genuine, and her fingers keep combing through his hair. It coils something inside him tight and tighter, sparks flying, threatening to burn him up from the inside. His uniform the one thing that keeps him from disintegrating, melting into her and her pleasure.

He doesn’t want to break contact, but has to, just long enough to pull down her underwear before he burrows back in, fully tasting her arousal for the first time. It’s intoxicating. She’s as wet as he knew she would be, the delicious film of her coating his tongue, his mouth, his chin. Her coarse curls rubbing against his lips with the ways they move together. His hips buck against the bed, and he’s so hard for her, hot and aching and full with how much he wants her.

He pushes himself off, tries to focus, and she makes a small sound, almost a yelp, her hands scrabbling to keep him in place. Her need for him is so clear, there is no pretense, no way she even tries to hide it, and it anchors him to this moment.

He takes one last look, brief but intense. She looks debauched, desperate for him to make her come. Her bra is still on, but askew, its band pressing right across her left nipple. She must have played with her breast while he was occupied in her lap. The thought makes his desire contract deep down low, makes him want to see her pleasure herself. But not now. Right now, her body is calling for him, begging him. Her thighs are spread wide, even as her ankles are bound together by the underwear he didn’t push all the way down. Her legs in a rhomb shape, queen of diamonds. His mouth waters. There is no shame in the way she bares herself to him, no attempt at modesty. She keeps herself open, ready for him to dive back in, to give her the pleasure he promised. And heavens, he needs it, too.

His mouth is back on her in an instant, hands angling her hips just right. He laps at her opening, drinking down her arousal. He feels her moan more than he hears it, a pulse of electricity running from where his lips touch her down his spine, making him throb. His tongue slides lower and she quivers. He doesn’t follow up, files it away for later.

He’s so hard, so close to his own climax, and he hopes that he reads her right. Hopes that it won’t take much to push her over the edge. His mouth closes over her clit, and she groans. It’s a delightful sound, primal and pure. Her thighs press around his head and her fingers dig into his scalp, everything to keep him in place, to take her pleasure from him.

He sucks, hard and soft, long and short, laps at the underside of her clit. He’s always loved this, using his mouth, and she tastes amazing, feels amazing. Almost too hot, her rapid heartbeat thrumming through her flesh, flowing into him. Like a feedback loop that speeds up his own pulse, makes his passion grow and grow. The salty sweetness of fresh arousal is filling his mouth and nostrils, and he can feel the catch of his own sticky skin against his underwear. He won’t be long now.

She shifts under him, so close, panting in a helpless rhythm. He feels his own climax closing in, building at the base of his spine, and he needs to make her come now, right now. He shifts his head, creating just a fraction of distance between them, and then blows warm air over the hot, sensitized skin of her sex, before he sucks her clit forcefully back into his mouth, slightly grazing with his bottom teeth. She tenses, movement suspended for a long, singular moment, and then she falls apart. Her hips jerk violently, filthy, guttural sounds falling from her lips, and all he can do is hold on.

The wave of her climax hits him, pulls him under. It makes him proud, elated, and he doesn’t even remember if he needed any extra friction to get there himself.

He’s still a little dizzy when he emerges from between her thighs, moving up to lie down alongside her. She looks relaxed, gratified, and stretches out her arms to pull him into a kiss. It’s slow and gentle and tastes of her.

“Thank you,” she says with a smile warmer than he has ever seen.

He feels warm, too, content. Boneless and pleasantly empty.

He should probably go, leave the captain’s quarters and return to his own. She moves, puts her head over his heart and her hand on his shoulder. It feels comfortable. It feels right.

A few more minutes, he’ll allow himself this much.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>  **Feedback** : short comments, long comments, questions, constructive criticism, "<3" as extra kudos, reader-reader interaction
> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)  
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